


Sanguinis et Tenebrae

by savorvrymoment



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Dark Magic, Knotting, M/M, Mating Bond, Post-Sirius Black in Azkaban
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 07:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12526008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorvrymoment/pseuds/savorvrymoment
Summary: In which Remus embraces the dark creature inside himself to protect and keep the ones he loves.





	Sanguinis et Tenebrae

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written for the HP fandom in God knows how long... This was the first fandom I was ever into, though I suppose everything old becomes new again. I did a quick refresh of canon before writing this because I'd forgotten a lot over the years--I apologize for any errors. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you enjoy this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. One more part is forthcoming, I'm hoping to have it up sometime next month--E-rating for next part. All comments and kudos are loved.<3<3<3

** 1:    ** **_ Proditione _ **

 

If Remus is truthful with himself, _The Prank_ is the turning point, the moment when everything began to fall apart.

Of course, even he doesn’t realize the significance of it then.  They are all young, stupid, and so very naïve, and it isn’t until years later that he understands, once everything has already collapsed around him.  Once he’s already shared so much of himself with Sirius—his forgiveness, his body, his heart…

But in that moment, in the days, weeks, and months after _what happened_ , he can’t stand to even look at his friends.

Dumbledore is understanding.  Bruised and broken and lying in the hospital ward, Remus tells the Headmaster that he is _not_ going back to that room in the dormitories.  He is not talking to them, especially not _him_ , even though Dumbledore tries to cajole him into it.  _Friendships are most valuable_ , he says.  _We are stronger together than apart_ , he says.  And, unbelievably, _Love is the most powerful magic of all._

But Remus refuses, and is allowed to stay in the hospital wing even after he is already healed from his transformation.  He goes back to the dormitories only once to collect his books and toiletries and a few changes of clothes.  James and Peter are the only two in the room then, and they both seem smart enough to leave him be. 

It’s a week after, though, that he finds a note flying onto his desk in the middle of Transfigurations class.  His name on the top is scrawled in Sirius’ fancy, unmistakable handwriting.  Fury flares in the pit of Remus’ stomach, the feel of it sickening.  He takes the note and crumples it up in his hand, squeezing it tight in his fist, and lets his anger flow through him. 

 _You don’t understand me,_ he thinks.  _I am a dark creature—my body is not the same as yours, my senses are not the same as yours, my **magic** is not the same as yours.  I don’t want to be a monster, but…_

He lets his anger course through him, lets himself _go_ for once, and feels the note turn to ash in his hand.  He releases it then, dropping the ash onto the desk, and brushes it off the edge onto the floor. 

Sirius gasps from behind him, a noise so quiet that if Remus were not a werewolf, he would not have heard it.  There are whispered mutterings between the others then…

“Did you see that?”

“Sirius…”

“He didn’t even use his wand.”

“He obviously didn’t need to.”

“He’s a werewolf, you bloody idiots…”

“Shh!!”

“Not right now, he’s not.”

“Pads, he’s always a… you know.”

“Not right now!”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Just because he looks like Moony and not… you know.  It doesn’t mean he’s _not._ ”

And Remus is dying to look behind him at their table after that hushed conversation.  _I can hear you,_ he thinks.  _And you’re **all** bloody idiots._  

“You should talk to the Headmaster,” James whispers after a pause.  “If you really don’t know this stuff, maybe you should.  He has a book he let me borrow.  It was very… informative.”

And Remus has rarely heard James this serious.  He listens closely. 

“What book?” Peter asks, curious.

“Yeah,” Sirius echoes.  “What book?”

_Yeah.  What book?_

“Just go.  Talk to him.”

Sirius sighs, but Remus doesn’t look back. 

~*~

The next full moon approaches. 

Sirius sends him several more notes during classes, all of which Remus disintegrates just like the first.  But two days before the change, he finds Sirius cornering him as they leave Charms, both of them stopped at the top of the stairs.  “Wait,” Sirius says, daring to put his hand on Remus’ arm.  “Wait, we need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Remus replies, trying to gently pull away. 

Sirius tightens his grip.  “No,” he says, insistent.  “I know you’re angry at me, and I don’t blame you, but…”

“Angry?” Remus asks, huffing a laugh.  He considers tossing his friend down the stairs for a brief minute—he’s come to know his own body as he’s grown, and he knows his own strength and speed.  Sirius would be down before the other boy could even react.  It would serve him right, one hurt and betrayal in return for another hurt and betrayal.

Except Remus is not a monster.  He does not _want_ to be a monster.  Nor is he going to sink to Sirius’ level of immature payback. 

“I said, ‘I have nothing to say to you’,” Remus repeats, shrugging away with more force.  Sirius’ hand leaves his arm. 

“It’s just that, you know, this Friday night,” Sirius starts.  Remus narrows his eyes.  “We just—Prongs and Wormtail says you don’t want us there, but…”

“I don’t,” Remus says, and turns away.  As far as he’s concerned, the conversation is over. 

“But, you need us,” Sirius says, desperate.  Remus feels him following, and sighs.  _So arrogant._

“This may surprise you, but I was a ‘you know’,” he begins, sure to mock their tone and prior conversation with the phrase.  Sirius frowns before him, paling.  Remus continues, “I was a ‘you know’ for almost eleven years before you were ever with me during…  And for seven of those years, I didn’t even _know_ you.  I survived then, and I’ll survive again now.”

“Moony…” Sirius says, but Remus is already descending the stairs.

“Don’t,” he warns over his shoulder.  “Leave it.”

“We don’t have to talk, you don’t have to forgive us—forgive me,” Sirius says, still scrambling behind him to keep up.  “But let us be there.  It’ll make it easier.”

“Easier for who?” Remus asks.  He feels so very tired suddenly.  “Easier for who?  Me?  Or you?”

He feels Sirius stop behind.  Odd.  Remus stops as well.  Sirius eventually says, “I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?”

Remus actually laughs at that.  “It’s too late,” Remus answers from over his shoulder.  “Already happened.”

This time, Sirius doesn’t follow him when he heads down the stairs.

~*~

Remus wakes up bleary the afternoon after the full moon.

His memories from that morning are foggy.  Of course, he has no memories from the night, no memories of the wolf, but he remembers waking up on the floor of the Shrieking Shack to the early dawn light.  He remembers curling in on himself in agony, the pain in his abdomen and gut crippling, and feeling his own blood on his skin, oozing from his stomach down his hips and thighs. 

He remembers Madam Pomfrey coming for him, the woman fussing over him on the floor.  He remembers her soothing magic on his stomach, dulling the pain, and remembers her covering him in a quilt to keep him warm, and to preserve what was left of his dignity.  _You’d been doing so much better_ , she’d told him, quiet and sad.  _I thought maybe as you were getting older…_

But then Remus is waking up in the hospital wing that afternoon.  He’s lying naked in his bed, wrapped up warm in the sheets.  There are bandages tied tight around his middle, but the pain is still dampened by healing magic.  He breathes in deeply, trying to calm his fried nerves, and smells him. 

_Friend.  Packmate.  Dog. **Sirius.**   _

Even though never quite human, his senses wax and wane along with the moon cycle, and now Sirius’ smell is overwhelming.  Normally a comforting and pleasing scent, it’s nauseating to him now, and he reaches out toward it, looking to swat it away. 

His hand finds a head full of thick hair next to his hip, and he opens his eyes and looks down to meet Sirius’s gaze.  Sirius looks back, seated next to the bed on a stool and leaning over to rest his cheek and forearms on the mattress. 

Remus waits for him to speak or move for what seems like hours, just staring into those deep grey eyes.  The other boy looks so very… lost.  And Remus is eventually forced to break the silence.  “Are you allowed to be here right now?” he asks.

Sirius frowns, guilty.  “No,” he admits. 

 _Great._   “This is…” Remus starts, but trails off, not quite having the words.  _This is exactly the problem, Pads, your blatant disregard for everything._   Except that’s not really it.  It’s more that Remus had specifically told him ‘no’, to drop it and leave it.  Their friendship it over. 

And yet here the tosser sits.  Distraught and as gorgeous as ever. 

“What time is it?” Remus asks instead, closing his eyes against the look in Sirius’.  “Please tell me you aren’t skipping class to do… _this_.”

The silence after that is telling.  Remus sighs, and opens his eyes once again to stare at the ceiling.  It’s a long, charged moment before Sirius whispers, “I’m sorry.”

It’s the first time he’s actually apologized for what happened, for what he’s done—and the fact that it’s taken this long, a full month…  It makes Remus angry, but in that way that is fueled by so many other emotions as well: hurt, distrust, fear, and something so strong; Remus calls it hate at that moment because he has no other word for it. 

But Sirius has always been different.  James and Peter are his brothers, and Sirius is too but—but Sirius makes him _feel_.  Sirius is his highest of highs and his lowest of lows, is his passion and his grace, his heart and his soul.  And there is a fine line between love and hate.

“Don’t,” he tells Sirius, and his voice cracks on the word.  His eyes have welled with tears, though he won’t let them fall, he’s stronger than that.  He continues to stare up at the ceiling, refusing to let his emotions take him. 

“Moony, I’m so, so sorry,” Sirius repeats, desperate.  Remus feels his hand touch his hip, tentative, yet with the sort of familiarity bred from true friendship.  Familiarity from so many weeks, months, _years_ together.  Sirius continues, “I didn’t understand.  I mean, I should have, but…  I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Yes,” Remus agrees simply.

Sirius huffs a laugh at that, but it’s a dark sound.  “I know, I know,” he says.  Then, leaning down by his feet and producing an old tome, “The Headmaster gave me this book to read.  It’s called _Sanguinis et Tenebrae._ It’s a… not a very nice book.  Right up my parents’ alley, really…”

“And Dumbledore gave it to you?” Remus interrupts, turning incredulous eyes on Sirius.  He knows enough old Latin to decipher the title.  _Of Blood and Darkness._   Or something along those lines.  Blood.  Dark.  “You’re quite sure you didn’t pilfer this from the Restricted Section?”

“Yes!  I swear!” Sirius says, begging.  “I’m supposed to return it to him tomorrow night, after supper.  But I thought you might like to see it first, before I gave it back.  There’s a whole section on… on _you_.  I read it and…  And Merlin, Moony, I’m so sorry.  I didn’t understand.”

 _Really?  You didn’t understand?_ Remus thinks, exasperated.  _Not only did I tell you, but you’ve been **with** me, the dog at my side.  _But he doesn’t voice this aloud, instead he asks, “May I see the book?”

“Yeah, ‘course, here,” Sirius answers, rushing to comply.  Remus maneuvers himself in the bed to better see, and looks down at the cover.  A pentagram with a clawed-handprint smeared through the middle is emblazoned across the black cover, the title printed in blood-red.  It seems like a book they shouldn’t be looking at, that no decent wizard-or-witch should be looking at, and Remus can hardly believe Dumbledore would simply give this to Sirius to read.  He opens his mouth to ask more questions, but then Sirius is reaching toward the book, eagerly opening the pages, and offering, “Here…  Dumbledore marked the pages for me.  I’ll show you.”

He opens the book to a subject page entitled ‘Werewolves’, which outlines several more sections including ‘Anatomical Significances’, ‘Curse Progression’, and ‘The Lunar Cycle’.  Remus blinks, not quite believing what he’s seeing.  This entire time, there’s been this sort of in-depth information available about his curse, about what he is and who he is, and Dumbledore hasn’t seen fit to share it with him?  _No one_ has seen fit to share it with him?

Well, no one except Sirius…

“Th-thank you,” Remus manages, flipping over to the next page.  ‘Anatomical Significances’.  A photo of another were’s blue-glow eyes stare back up at him from the page, the following paragraph launching into an explanation of werewolf ocular appearance and function. 

“No, just…”  Sirius trails off, shaking his head.  “I have to return it tomorrow,” he repeats, “but you can keep it until then.  Just don’t let Madam Pomfrey see it—I mean, Dumbledore _did_ give it to me, but look at it…  I think it’s forbidden material.”

“I’ll hide it, don’t worry,” Remus promises. 

“Ok.  Ok, good,” Sirius decides.

And the silence that hangs then is louder than any amount of screaming ever could be.  Sirius gazes at him with such profound sorrow, and if Remus looks back he isn’t going to be able to hold himself together.  So he stares down at the writing in the book instead, seeing but not quite comprehending. 

“I should go.”  Sirius breaks the quiet finally.

And it’s bait, Remus knows this.  Sirius doesn’t move to get up or go anywhere.  He’s waiting for Remus to come around and tell him _not_ to go, to please _stay._   And if only Remus were older, wiser, more shrewd…  Or perhaps just not sucked into the moon cycle, not recovering from the change, not such an emotional wreck…  Or perhaps just not wrapped so tightly around Sirius’ little finger…  Then maybe he’d let him leave.  But as it is, Remus says quietly, “You don’t have to go.”

Sirius scoots closer.  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs again.

“You already said that,” Remus tells him.

“Well,” Sirius says with sigh.  “It deserves repeating, mate.”

At that, Remus finally looks up from the pages to meet Sirius’ gaze, and Sirius gives him a watery smile in return.  Remus feels the anger and pain and betrayal he’s been carrying around for the past month begin to melt.  “You can’t just apologize and expect for everything to be okay,” Remus attempts.  “I can’t act like this hasn’t happened and just… _trust_ again.  I can’t.”

And Remus expects an argument, or more pleas for forgiveness.  Instead, Sirius simply answers, “I know.  I wasn’t expecting you to.”

And that’s what convinces him, of all things.  He relents, “Okay, Pads.”

“Okay,” Sirius echoes.  He wavers on the stool for a brief moment before leaning in and placing a brief, chaste kiss to Remus’ cheek.  Then, blushing a brilliant crimson, says, “I’m supposed to be in Potions.”

“Then maybe you should go be in Potions,” Remus says lightly, even as his heart is pounding.

Sirius nods, scrambling up from the stool while slinging his bag over his shoulder.  And somehow, even flustered and rushing, he still has a sort of casual grace that Remus himself can’t manage to pull off when trying. 

 _Sodding bastard_ , he thinks, touching his cheek.  The other boy’s lips had been soft.  He shakes his head, and goes back to the book. 

He thoroughly reads the segment on werewolves, stunned at everything about himself he’d never known.  He also manages to get through the sections on vampires, ghouls, and is halfway through the section on unidentified dark spirits when Sirius comes to collect the tome the next evening. 

It’s the second-best thing anyone has ever given him, this insight into himself—the _best_ gift being the offer of companionship during the moons, the Animus transformations.  Sirius had been involved in the first, and has now given him the second…

And Remus forgives him his trespasses as easily as breathing. 

 

** 2:  _Reconcilio_ **

               

Sirius wants to say something profound when he arrives at Remus’ house.  After everything that has happened and after all the years, he _needs_ to.  Years of suspicion, distrust, expecting the worst—of death, fear, and loss…  Twelve years of prison, Azkaban dementors, hurting and regretting, then running and bleeding and _more regret_ …

But Remus opens the door up to his small cottage seeming as old and haggard as he had that night in the Shrieking Shack, then looks down at him with a small, crooked smile.  “A stray mutt,” he says, pushing the door open wider so Padfoot can trot inside.  “I’ll let him in.  He might be hungry.”

 _Very funny_ , Sirius thinks, transforming back into a human once safely indoors.  It’s odd transforming—he hasn’t been human in months now, and he has to stand for a moment, rolling his shoulders and arching his back until his vertebrae crack.  Remus watches him from behind his fringe of sandy brown hair, silently letting him adjust, and Sirius is struck by the complete and utter familiarity of him combined with the strangeness of it all. 

 _I’m sorry,_ he wants to say.  _I’m sorry this happened, I’m sorry for not trusting you,_ he wants to say.  _How could you really think I would… James was my **brother** , _he wants to say.  _Why did you not fight for me?  I didn’t even get a trial, I never got the chance to gather myself and explain…  I loved you, I thought you loved me, you told me you did…_

Instead, he says, “Yeah, mate, I’m hungry.  But I haven’t bathed in months, and I need to shave.  And I think I have fleas.”

Remus chuckles, and turns away, motioning him to follow.  “You know,” he says, rounding the corner past the kitchen and pushing open the door the bathroom, “the beard doesn’t look _bad_.  Needs a bit of trimming, but…”

 _Really?  I’ve been here one minute and you start with this?_ Sirius thinks.  Instead, he says, “I’m shaving it.”

Remus eyes him inscrutably, before nodding inside the bathroom.  “I’ve got a water heater.  ‘Fraid I don’t have anything for fleas right now, though,” he says.  “You’ll just have to scrub.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sirius says, stepping inside.  “I’m so chuffed about the hot water I could scream.”

Remus chuckles again, a quieter and deeper sound than it used to be, but still so very familiar.  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says, backing away and shutting the door behind himself. 

The bathroom is small—just a toilet, a sink, and a bathtub with a simple cream-colored rug in the middle of it all.  But the bathtub is big, taking up half the room, with clawed feet and an attached showerhead.  At that particular moment, Sirius is sure he’s never seen anything more heavenly. 

He pulls off his prison robes, letting them fall where they will, and begins to peruse the bath soaps set on the floor next to the tub.  They’re the same sorts Remus always used, different brands but the same smells—subtle, fresh, and clean.  He’d told Sirius once that strong smells bothered his enhanced senses, things like rich colognes and fragrant soaps.  Sirius had always been careful about what he’d bought and worn after that.

And Sirius has used the toilet and is reclining in the bath, eyes closed and just breathing in the steam from the hot water, when the bathroom door opens and Remus lets himself in.  Sirius sits bolt upright in the tub, water sloshing over the side, but Remus doesn’t even look at him.  And Sirius suddenly realizes Remus is talking…

“…towels.  And clothes for you to change into—they’ll probably be a bit big, but they’re clean.  Promise.”  Sirius looks over to see him setting down fresh towels on the sink, as well as a t-shirt, sweatpants, and underwear.  Remus continues, “I’m making tea—and I’m sorry, I don’t really have anything to cook.  But I’ve got bread and cheese, some peanut butter and jam—I’m sure we’ll figure something…”

His sentence ends abruptly as he turns around and sees Sirius sitting up in the water, hands squeezing the edges of the tub so hard his knuckles have gone white.  His eyes drift from Sirius’ eyes down across his emaciated chest and then down further, to where his hips disappears beneath the dirty water.  Sirius blinks back at him, at his reddening cheeks and his wide eyes, and realizes…

Before, when they were young and sharing a flat and sharing a bed, Remus would never have thought twice about letting himself into the bathroom while Sirius was bathing, regardless of the reason.  Whether it was to simply tell him something, or to have a quick pee, or to climb into the shower with him with sweet kisses and whispered nothings…  Their relationship was born of relaxedness and familiarity, and there were few things that they hid from each other. 

(Looking back, this is partly why his secrecy regarding Order missions had hit Sirius so close to home.  It was just so… _wrong._ )

“Oh, Merlin, I’m so sorry.  I wasn’t thinking,” Remus says, quickly turning away.  “I know it’s been a long time, but it was you, and I just…  I should have knocked, I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s okay,” Sirius says, though he’s not sure it is.  Remus seems to understand this, because he doesn’t turn back around to face him.  But Sirius is sure of something.  “I understand,” he says, before Remus can flee from the bathroom.  “This is…  More than I was expecting.”

Remus half-glances over his shoulder, lingering in the doorway.  “Quite the understatement,” he muses, melancholy.  Then, “There’s only one bedroom.  I was going to say we’d just share the bed, but if you’re uncomfortable, I’ll take the couch.”

“No,” Sirius says, shaking his head.  Remus looks tired, his shoulders slumped, trousers hanging low on too-thin hips.  Sirius tries to do a mental check on when the next full moon is, or how long ago the last full moon was, but finds he doesn’t know.  Such a startling thing to _not_ know—something he used to always be able to name without even thinking.  “No,” Sirius repeats.  “You’re not sleeping on the couch.  We’re both adults, right?  We can sleep in the same bed…”  _Again._

Remus cocks his head further, and Sirius can see one amber eye looking at the wall.  He doesn’t speak for so long that Sirius almost doesn’t expect him to, or perhaps expects him to insist on taking the couch now, after this just happened.  Whatever _this_ was.  Sirius relaxes back into the bath with a sigh, letting his eyes slip closed again.  And then Remus says softly, “Okay then.  I’ll be in the kitchen once you’re finished.”

“Mmm, alright,” Sirius answers, not bothering to open his eyes. 

The door clicks shut as Remus leaves.

~*~

Sirius spends the next few days mostly sleeping. 

He doesn’t realize how tired he is until he lies down in Remus’ soft double bed, snuggled into the downy pillows and warm quilts.  He’s been on the run for so long, spending more time moving and hiding than anything else, much more than resting or eating or caring for himself.  He’s overtired and malnourished, sick and eaten up with parasites, and now that he has found a place of refuge, he crashes. 

For the most part Remus leaves him be.  Sirius doesn’t know if it is out of discomfort, or if it is just Remus being Remus—intimately acquainted with feeling poorly, and therefore knowing what Sirius wants: to be left alone to sleep.  Though Remus does come through in the mornings and evenings, dragging Sirius out to the kitchen for something to eat. 

Remus had been right, there’s not much to put together in the kitchen.  They both go through the bread, cheese, and jam within the first day—or rather, Sirius does—and Remus ends up going into town the next day for groceries.  He returns with little more than he had in the first place—more bread, more cheese, some pasta and a bit of produce—and Sirius doesn’t even have to ask to know.

He hasn’t been able to find another job. 

Sirius sits at the table the third morning, watching as Remus reads the Prophet and stirs idly at the sugar in his tea.  The mug he’s using is one of those chintzy Muggle mugs with silly sayings on them, the kind he always loved.  Sirius tilts his head to see what is printed on it; it reads ‘Caution: May Contain Whiskey’.  That makes him grin to himself, and he turns his own mug about to see what’s written there. 

The words ‘Hound Dog’ stare back at him, and he chokes. 

He can suddenly recall sitting at another table in another flat, the memory as vivid as if in a pensive…

_He’s nineteen-years-old, hand wrapped around that same damn mug, **hound dog** , and Remus is sitting next to him, leaning in against him, nibbling at his ear.  A firm hand closes around his thigh, slowly sliding up and up, then cupping his hardening cock through his pajama bottoms.  Remus rumbles at him, pleased, and murmurs, “I want you.  Right here, right now…”_

Thirty-three-year-old Remus glances up at him from the Prophet, taking him in and obviously realizing what has startled him.  He gives Sirius a sad smile, before going back to his paper.

“You kept it?” Sirius finds himself asking, even though he knows he shouldn’t.  He’s opening a whole can of worms here that shouldn’t be touched, not in his current shape and state of mind.

Remus looks back up at him, his expression blank.  “Yes,” he answers eventually, simple and to the point. 

“Why?” Sirius presses.  _You thought I’d betrayed James and Lily, killed Peter, lied to you for years…_

There’s another long silence before he answers.  “I kept a lot of your things,” he says.  “Those mugs you’d bought.  Some clothes, jewelry, that sort of thing…  And I’ve still got all your books.”

Sirius can feel his emotions reeling with this information.  “Why?” he asks again, fully aware Remus had dodged the question at hand. 

“I—,” Remus begins, before shaking his head and sitting back further in his chair.  “Do you really want to hash this all out right now?” he asks.  “While you’re crawling up out of the grave?”

“I just asked a question,” Sirius counters, though he knows he’s being belligerent.  There are questions, and then there are _questions._  

Remus sighs, and says, “A lot of it was out of necessity.  I couldn’t exactly afford to throw away perfectly good, _usable_ items.  I pawned some of your good jewelry when times got hard—the silver things, mostly.  And…”  He pauses with a huff of unamused laughter.  “…I feel it’s obvious why I kept the books.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says with a sigh.  _So that’s all, then…_

There’s silence for a moment, before Remus leans forward, hands on the table, and says, “I didn’t mean—if you need to talk to someone about… about everything, you know you can talk to me.  Best-mates, yeah?”

 _Yeah, best-mates_ , Sirius thinks, unsure whether he’s bitter or grateful.  He nods, wrapping his hands tighter around the warm mug, and begins to deny needing to talk.  Instead, he says, “There’s a lot I don’t remember.  From before, when we were younger.  It’s like it was taken from me…” 

Remus doesn’t answer at first, only nods in reply.  When he does speak, his expression is characteristically passive—in stark contrast with the wavering edge to his voice.  “Do you remember…?” he asks.

But Sirius doesn’t even let him finish the sentence.  “Yeah,” he assures him.  _I remember **us.**_   “The big things I remember.  It’s all those little moments that are just…  _Poof_.”  He makes a vague gesture with his hand to accentuate his point, and Remus frowns. 

“I’m sorry,” Remus says, and Sirius laughs, because it’s really hysterical.  Remus, the one with all the apologies and the least to forgive.  And Sirius, the one most in need of forgiveness and fresh out of apologies.  

That mixture of bitterness and gratitude he’s been struggling with abruptly tips hard in favor of bitterness.  “Why?  What are you sorry for?” he snaps.  “For never coming for me when they arrested me?  For never fighting for me, for not believing me?  For not trusting me, for thinking I was a Black just like all the rest?  Which is it?”

Remus watches him silently through his outburst, his outward appearance seemingly calm.  But Sirius has had years reading those unearthly amber eyes, and he can tell the other man is seething.  It’s a look he’s forgotten—but that look, the wolf’s glow setting a fire behind Remus’ eyes…

_Fifteen-years-old, and Sirius is standing at the top of the stairs outside of Charms.  A young and fiery Remus stares him down, danger and menace behind those bright eyes, and something in Sirius’ heart ignites._

Sirius just gawps.

But then Remus shakes his head, smoothing his hands across the table as though to collect himself before speaking.  “First off, I was not allowed anywhere near you, or _any of it_ , afterward,” he begins.  “They searched our flat for evidence, and I was promptly escorted to the Ministry for questioning.  I was living with the man who’d just blown up half a city street, do you understand that?  Do you know how that looked?  I mean, I insisted we were just flat-mates, but there was only one bed in the place—they didn’t need Auror training to figure that one out…”

“Oh,” Sirius says, having never thought of this.  He’s been too wrapped up in his own transgressions and suffering.  He looks away from Remus, frowning down at the table instead.

Remus continues, “And second, I spoke to Albus once I was released.  I told him you still deserved a fair trial, even if...”  He trails off with a sigh, and takes a deep breath before continuing.  “He told me the trial was being waived due to lack of evidence, and told me ‘not to let my emotions cloud my judgement’.  Or some such.”

Sirius growls, gaze immediately meeting Remus’ once again.  “Next time I see that old man…”

“Oh, I’ve already spoken to him,” Remus says, tone of voice sharp as a knife.  “I have my own suspicions about what actually happened, and I…  Well, it’s done, in the past.  There’s nothing to be done now.”

Sirius frowns, looking down at the table once again, at his hands wrapped around his tea.  He feels suddenly, cripplingly stupid.

“And third, in case you have, in fact, forgotten…  You were bedding me every night—a half-blood, male werewolf,” Remus says, a small melancholy smile gracing his features.  “I was well aware you weren’t a Black ‘just like all the rest’.”

Sirius sighs, closing his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Remus says.  “I’ve gone over this so many times now—what I should have done differently, what I could have said, what…”

“No more so that I have,” Sirius interrupts, laughing bitterly.  “All I’ve _had_ is time to mull it all over.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Stop apologizing!” he snaps.

“But…” Remus trails off.  “I _am_ sorry.  For what you had to go through.”

“I should have trusted you,” Sirius says quietly, staring into his tea. 

“Yes, you should have,” Remus says.  He stands from the table then, stepping over to put his empty mug in the sink.  “I have to leave for a bit today.  Minerva’s found me a few odd jobs, exterminator work.  I’ll be back before dark.”

“Oh, okay,” Sirius says, happy that his friend has managed to find a source of income, even if it’s not steady.  At the same time, he’s suddenly uncomfortable being left alone, but he swallows his nerves down quickly. 

But Remus is more perceptive than he has any right to be.  He pauses, eyeing Sirius speculatively, and asks, “Will you be alright here?”

“Yeah, of course,” Sirius says, shooting him a classic ‘Sirius Black’ grin. 

Remus doesn’t look like he completely believes him, but he nods anyway and goes to walk out of the kitchen.  Sirius looks away, assuming the conversation is over, but then Remus pauses, back turned to Sirius.  “You were always asking me where I was.  Back then, before,” Remus says, glancing over his shoulder.  “Well, I was spying—I’d infiltrated Fenrir’s pack…”

Sirius’ heart seems to stop in his chest.  “Wh-what?” he stammers.

And the memory hits strong— _twenty-one-years-old, and Remus apparates home in the middle of the night, bloody and bruised, an open and bleeding wound on his cheek.  Sirius bolts upright in the bed, gasping at the sight of him, and opens his mouth to yell, to accuse, to reproach…  But Remus closes his eyes, his face a mess of conflicting emotions, and climbs onto the bed alongside Sirius, reaching out desperately…_

Remus doesn’t repeat himself, only continues, “So I hope you understand why I wasn’t supposed to tell you.  Why I _didn’t_ tell you.  It was as much for your protection as for mine.  You were in enough danger just _living_ with me.”

“Dumbledore sent you back there?  To _him_?!” Sirius snaps.

“Yes,” Remus answers.  “And I’d do it again without question.  I’m the only one who can.”

“That’s not…!” Sirius barks.

“And this is another reason why I didn’t tell you,” Remus says with a tired sigh, before disappearing around the corner to the bathroom.

Sirius echoes his sigh, closing his eyes against his own agitation, and ends up slamming his hand down on the table in frustration. 

~*~

A week passes, and then another.

Sirius starts keeping an eye on the moon, and watches it begin to wax and near full.  Though he doesn’t even need to look out the window at night to figure this out—Remus tells him soon enough.

He doesn’t tell him with words.  No, Sirius is quickly reacquainted with something he’d forgotten about in those twelve years in Azkaban.  While Sirius would never, ever, _ever_ tell Remus this to his face, the man cycles with the moon in a way startling similar to a woman.  He can remember joking with James and Peter how they needed to watch out, because Remus had P.M.S.  Pre-Moon Syndrome. 

Merlin, they’d thought they were so damn funny…

And now, Sirius watches him do the same things he used to twelve years ago.  He devolves into a state of perpetual agitation, unable to get comfortable in the chair or the bed.  His evening tea turns into hot cocoa, and he stumbles around the cottage with a quilt wrapped around his shoulders, obviously feverish and cold.  There also used to be a sharp spike in his libido—and perhaps there still is, but Sirius is no longer the recipient of _those_ affections, so he doesn’t know whether the other is feeling randy or not…

_Sixteen-years-old, and Remus sits in the common room by the fire.  The old Gryffindor sweater he’s wearing is a size too big, the sleeves hanging down over his hands and dragging along the pages of the textbook in his lap.  Sirius is about to leave with James to find their next grand adventure, but he pauses at Remus’ side, sees the other boy’s flushed cheeks and lust-blown pupils when their eyes meet…_

He’s certainly as irritable as ever.  It’s late, flames roaring in the fireplace, and they’ve been sitting complacently in the living room reading.  And Sirius isn’t even aware he’s being a nuisance, until Remus heaves a put-upon sigh and snaps, “Must you do that?”

Sirius doesn’t bother to ask exactly what he’d doing—from past experience, it’s usually something inane.  He just asks, “When is the full moon?  Tomorrow night?  The next?”

Remus narrows his eyes and opens his mouth as if to snap something back.  But then he closes his mouth and shakes his head with a wry grin.  “Arsehole,” he mumbles eventually.

“I don’t know what day that is,” Sirius says, just because he knows it will ruffle his feathers.

Sure enough, Remus shoots him an exasperated glare, amber eyes glowing.  “Tomorrow,” he eventually answers, tone impassive. 

“What have you been doing during?” Sirius asks.  “As far as I could see getting here, we’re pretty close to the town.  I’m assuming you don’t stay here.”

“Severus will be by tomorrow evening with the Wolfsbane,” Remus says.  “I just stay here in the home.  No one is close enough to hear the actual change.”

“You…” Sirius starts, disbelieving.  “You still let him brew that for you?  And you actually _drink_ it?  After everything he _did_!”

Remus sighs.  That’s becoming such a familiar sound…  “What else would you like me to do?” he asks, setting his book aside.  “Apparate to the Shrieking Shack and rip myself apart?  Risk hurting and turning someone?  I keep my mind with the potion, I’m safe…  I can stay here and ride it out.”

“All Snivellus would have to do is drop one wrong ingredient in…  Put too much of something in or not enough of something else.  He could kill you!” Sirius counters.

“ _Severus_ ,” Remus corrects, before shaking his head, completely unconcerned.  Then, “He wouldn’t dare.”

“Really?” Sirius counters.  “He’s never been very fond of you… of any of us.”

“And I can’t imagine why,” Remus says, sarcastic.  Sirius rolls his eyes, but Remus continues, tapping the end of his own nose, “I would be able to smell anything poisonous in the potion this close to the moon.  And I was very explicit in letting _him_ know that before he ever made it.”

“Oh,” Sirius says.  Remus, such a paradox—that soft, sweet, bookish exterior hiding something completely _other_ inside.  And it hits Sirius like a brick upside the head.  _God, I’m still so in love with this man._

_Eighteen-years-old, stealing kisses in the afterglow, and Sirius murmurs it for the first time, **I love you**.  Remus doesn’t say it back, not then, but Sirius thinks that’s alright.  After all, the wolf has already chosen a mate…_

“Mmm,” Remus murmurs, picking his book back up and going back to his reading. 

“I’ll stay here with you,” Sirius decides.  “Keep you company.”

Remus’ eyes glance up at him from over the top of the pages.  “You’ll have to stay here.  You can’t be seen,” he says finally.  “But I don’t need your company while I’m turned.”

Sirius frowns.  “If you keep your mind…”

“No,” Remus says, a hardened edge to his tone.  “I lock myself in the bedroom and usually go to sleep.  I don’t need company.”

“Remus, you’re not going to hurt me,” Sirius says.  “I’ll stay as Padfoot…”

“No!” Remus snaps, emphatic, before curling further into his quilt.  His amber eyes once again flick back to his book pages, and he finishes simply, “You’ll have to stay on the couch tomorrow night.  I’m sorry.”

And though Sirius’ heart rails in his chest, he goes quiet, aware that the conversation is over.

~*~

 Severus arrives at the home about two hours before moonrise, stepping easily from the fireplace through the Floo as though he lives in the house as well.

Sirius, standing in the middle of the kitchen, stares in horror.  “Remus!” he squalls after a moment. 

Remus comes bustling around the corner from the bedroom, wiping his hands on the hem of his too-large sweater.  “Ah, Severus,” he greets. 

Severus scowls, holding the goblet of smoking Wolfsbane in front of him.  Sirius can smell the scent of aconite from where he stands in the kitchen.  “Really, Lupin?” Severus asks, briskly stepping across the room toward them.  “ _Still_ no wards on this cottage?  You do realize we are looking at the beginnings of a war…  And you _both_ are targets.”

“That was my question!” Sirius gripes, turning an angry glare on Lupin.

That fire is back in Remus’ eyes when he turns his gaze on Sirius.  “No one asked for your opinion,” he snaps at Sirius first, before turning his ire on Snape.  “And I have already told you, I have warded this home _thoroughly_.”

And something connects then...  _Twenty-one-years-old, and Sirius is screaming at Remus over a bloody sigil on the floor._

“Yet I’m able to step through your Floo without even calling,” Severus says with a dramatic roll of the eye.

“Then you must mean me no harm,” Remus says, shooting the other man a crooked grin.  At first glance, it’s just a friendly gesture, but Sirius catches a glimpse of one slightly elongated canine in that smirk.  It may be an unconscious motion this close to the moon, but the fact remains—he’s baring his fangs at Severus.  Sirius has to look away to keep from smiling in glee. 

Perhaps Severus recognizes the edge to Remus’ demeanor or perhaps he does not.  Regardless, he hands the potion off to Remus without another word, and glides back toward the fireplace.  Remus sets the potion down on the kitchen counter, and scratches in agitation at the scruff on his chin.  But then Severus pauses before stepping through the Floo, and says, “I trust you will be careful tonight, Lupin.  You have a houseguest now, and the last thing we need is two mongrels hanging about…”

The sound that comes from the back of Remus’ throat in response is purely animalistic.  Meanwhile, Sirius flies off the handle, snapping, “Do you really think we don’t know how to handle this by now?!”

But then Severus has stepped through the fireplace and is gone.

Remus grunts to himself, before grabbing the tin of sugar off the counter and beginning to dump spoonfuls into the Wolfsbane.  Sirius frowns, and asks, “Can you do that?”

Those wolf-glow eyes snap up to look at him.  “Do what?”

“Add sugar?” Sirius clarifies.

“No, but I figured I’d do it anyway,” Remus answers dryly. 

Sirius sighs.  _Okay, time to leave him be…_   “Yeah, I can take a hint,” Sirius says, huffy.  “Let me just get a change of clothes out of the bedroom, then you can lock yourself up.”

“Okay, thank you,” Remus says.  Then, as Sirius rounds the corner out of the kitchen, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

And Sirius wants to turn around and smack the man, or perhaps just smack himself, because why does Remus have to be like that?  Both infuriating and blameless at the same time.  It’s all too much right now.

He grabs a fresh t-shirt and pair of underwear out of the dresser then turns to leave the bedroom, which is when he sees it…  Remus has put down a bowl of water in one corner, and has laid out a pile of old papers in another corner, just like one would do for a naughty puppy they expect to potty on the floor.  The sheets and blankets have been stripped off the bed, leaving only the bare, scratched mattress.  And Sirius glances back to the door already expecting what he’ll see, and sure enough finds a silver deadbolt where the doorknob used to be. 

It’s all so _demeaning_. 

“Moony,” he says, barreling back out into the kitchen.  “Moony, just leave the backdoor open.  We can go outside, run out under the stars like old times, yeah?  You don’t have to lock…”

“Goodnight, Sirius,” Remus says curtly, not even acknowledging his words, and brushes past him.  “I’ll see you come morning.”

Sirius looks down at the empty goblet on the counter, and winces at the sound of the deadbolt sliding shut in the bedroom. 

He tries to busy himself and not think about what is inevitably about to happen.  He washes the dishes from the day—by hand and not by magic, he’s not supposed to be using his own talents after all—and straightens up in the living room.  He sits and attempts to read for a bit, but finds he can’t concentrate on the words, too busy staring out the window at the darkening sky.  So he decides finally that he will simply bathe and then lie down, even though he’s positive he won’t get an ounce of sleep.

He’s just stepped into the bathroom when the bloodcurdling scream resounds from the bedroom…

_Four months before, and Sirius stands before Remus as he falls and twists and tears apart in the Forbidden Forest.  He wants to be furious—he **is** furious.  Peter is getting away.  But moreover, he’s caught between the dual instincts of protecting Harry from Remus, and protecting Remus from himself.  It’s second nature to melt into Padfoot and herd Moony away from the children, though the sounds Remus makes during the change—Sirius has never been that close before, has never heard him cry out so clearly…_

Sirius drops his clothes and towel on the floor, turning back and slamming into the bedroom door.  There’s no doorknob to pull the door open with now, and Sirius growls to himself, banging his fists against the door.  “Moony!” he yells.  “Moony, let me in!”

Remus doesn’t answer, only howls in agony. 

“Goddammit,” Sirius curses.  If Remus isn’t going to let him in, then he’s going to let himself in, even if he shouldn’t be practicing magic.  He slides his hands up and down the door, searching for a quick way to flick the lock up and back.  He doesn’t have a wand, and he’s gone so long without using his magic anyway…  It takes him several tries, but _finally_ the padlock slides loose with a sharp _clink._

Sirius throws open the door.

Remus is on his knees by the bed, head ducked down between his shoulders, fingers digging into the mattress.  His head snaps up when Sirius enters, wide eyes feral, and he pulls away from the bed long enough to point one finger at Sirius and snarl, “ _OUT!!_ ”

As soon as the word is out, though, he collapses down onto himself, scrabbling at the wooden floor as he cries out again.  Sirius crosses the room and drops to his knees by his lover’s side as easily as breathing. 

Remus tries to push him away at first.  He butts his head against Sirius’ chest, then twists away suddenly with an aggressive snarl.  The popping sound of his vertebrae realigning themselves echo in the room.  Fingernails already sharpened to claws swipe at Sirius’ chest, and Sirius has a moment of panic before he remembers a line, a passage, from somewhere…

_Contrary to popular myth, the disease can only be transmitted through the saliva of the wolf.  Victims of lycanthrope scratches, regardless of form, will not fall prey to the disease.  Also, the lycanthrope cannot pass on his curse through his human saliva, mucous, blood, urine, feces, or semen…_

A harsh, loud crack—Remus’ hips dislocating themselves—and he stops fighting, instead pushes his face into Sirius’ chest with a sob.  Sirius threads his fingers through the other’s hair and croons softly to him.  _It’s okay…  I’m right here…  I’m so sorry that you have to go through this…_

“Transform when I turn,” Remus snarls.  Sirius looks down at him, and sees the wolf’s eyes in his human face, fanged canines hanging over his lower lips, his nose dislocated… 

“I will, don’t worry,” Sirius assures him.  “It’s okay, don’t worry.”

It’s only takes another minute, maybe two at most, but it feels like hours, endless hours of listening to the other’s pure agony.  But then the big, brown wolf is standing next to the bed, panting as he recovers from the change, so Sirius quickly lets himself melt into Padfoot.

Padfoot is used to needing to rein the wolf in.  It was always a game of give or take—allow the alpha wolf his rule, while also ensuring no one got hurt.  _No one_ , including Remus.  And so Padfoot stares the wolf down in the bedroom, ready for him to want to hunt.  Ready for him to pounce.  Ready for him to turn destructive.

But then the wolf stops panting, shakes from head to toe, and looks down at Padfoot with those amber-glow eyes. 

And Padfoot looks back up at _Remus_.

Remus only has to take one step to come nose to nose with Padfoot, and they snuffle at each other’s muzzles, scenting.  Moony smells the same as he always has, except he is calm now, not driven mad by some nameless, disparaging urge.  Padfoot likes this.  It makes Moony smell softer and kinder. 

Moony whines quietly, moving his twitching nose to the side to smell Padfoot’s ears, then further, sniffing down the contour of his spine.  Padfoot stands still, letting him scent as his nose drifts along his hip and flank, but then his nose slips down lower and…

 _Woah!_ Sirius thinks.  _Bloody hell, Remus?_

He hops to the side with a huff, tail between his legs, and looks back in surprise.  Moony growls quietly in response and tries to follow, before stopping abruptly.  Sirius can practically see Remus’ sheepish expression behind the wolf’s bright eyes.

 _So this is how it works_ , Sirius realizes.  The wolf’s savage anger is gone, and Remus is still definitely _there_.  But that animal instinct must be fierce, or Remus would never have allowed himself to stick his snout between Padfoot’s legs.

Moony turns away, gracefully stalking across the room.  He stops at the water bowl, lapping up a long drink, before he trots out into the living room.  Padfoot follows closely, his own dog-instinct telling him to scent the other, to repeat Remus’ movements from earlier.  However, he restrains himself. 

Moony sits down in the middle of the living room, head bowed to peer out the window.  Padfoot sits next to him, following the other’s gaze out the window and up at the moon.  Moony whines quietly, a soft and sad noise.  The wolf wants to be outside, under the stars in the glow of the moon.  Padfoot whines as well, before trotting over to the back door. 

He’s confident—he’s seen enough here and smelled enough here to know he’s in no danger.  He still careful when he transforms, though—quickly sliding into human shape, before flipping the lock on the door and flinging it open.  Then he’s back as Padfoot, turning around to face Moony.

Moony is crouched low, lip curled in a snarl and ears back— _Remus_ is unhappy with Sirius, with his transforming.  Padfoot lets his tongue loll out the side of his mouth and wags his tail madly.  _I let us outside, Remus!  Don’t be a sourpuss…_

Padfoot bounds outside into the grass, the cool night air filling his lungs.  He runs around the edges of the fenced-in yard, and is starting on his second lap when Moony bowls him over with a grunt.  Padfoot rolls across the grass, and feels Moony pounce playfully at his hind legs.  Sirius’ hearts sings.

_Twenty-years-old, and for the first time ever it is just the two of them under the full moon, both James and Peter busy on Order business.  Remus tells him to stay away, but Sirius doesn’t listen.  Sirius knows better than Remus, or at least young and foolhardy, he thinks he does…  Until Moony bounds out of the Shrieking Shack at him and flings him over, jaws around his throat, holding him down.  Padfoot goes still, fear causing him to submit, and thinks that this is the end, mauled to death by his lover.  Except Moony releases him, nose twitching as he sniffs along Padfoot’s belly, and then one massive paw pushes at his flank.  Padfoot understands the unspoken language. **Play…**_

Moony tires of their play eventually—much sooner than the Moony-from-before would have—and Padfoot joins him in the middle of the yard.  They sit with their sides touching, panting quietly from exertion.  Padfoot closes his eyes, leaning heavily against his friend, his pack, his _mate_.

Suddenly, a howl pierces the night.  Padfoot startles, before he realizes it is his Moony howling up at the sky, the sound so heartrending and sorrowful.  And something inside Sirius breaks, because that’s not the wolf making that noise, not completely. 

No, that sadness is _Remus._

Padfoot turns his nose to nuzzle along Moony’s chest and throat, and Moony stops howling at that, dipping his snout down to push at the top of Padfoot’s head.  Then Padfoot feels Moony’s warm, wet tongue along his brow and the top of his nose, pressing soft canine kisses to his fur.

 _Merlin, Remus…_   Sirius is lost, and he tips his head further back.  Further, until he can return those licks along Moony’s jawline and throat.  Moony heaves a deep breath, before throwing his head back to the sky and howling once again. 

This time, Padfoot joins him in his song.

~*~

Sirius startles awake the next morning, disoriented and still with four legs.  He can feel human skin against his fur, another’s chest rising and falling, and then Remus’ raspy cursing, “ _Fuck…_ ”

The dawn sunlight is beginning to stream through the blinds, casting the bedroom in hues of bronze and gold.  Sirius lets himself slide back into human form, twisting to lie on his stomach.  He looks to the side and finds Remus lying on his back, the other man straining for breath, his eyes closed. 

And it all comes back to him…  Playing in the yard, howling at the moon, nuzzling and cuddling and sweet puppy kisses under the stars.  Loping back inside once they were tired, jumping onto the mattress, curling up next to each other…

“Are you okay?” Sirius asks, afraid to break whatever spell has fallen over them.  Judging by the light outside, Remus has just turned back into his human self.  Sirius wonders if he remembers.

“I will be,” Remus says, not opening his eyes.  He takes a deep breath and stretches, his joints audibly popping and cracking.  Sirius eases closer, resting one hand on Remus’ bare chest, and Remus grunts softly.  “Sirius…”

“Moony,” Sirius says.  _Please don’t push me away, not now.  I don’t think I’ll be able to bear it…_

“I’m sorry,” Remus murmurs.  “I shouldn’t have…”

“Stop apologizing.”

Remus goes quiet, and Sirius watches him open amber-bright eyes to stare up at the ceiling.  There are unshed tears hanging there shining in the muted light of the bedroom, though Sirius doesn’t know if they’re from the pain of his recent transformation or from something else. 

Emotion burns hot in Sirius’ chest.  It spills over from the night before, combining with the stillness in the room now, with the wonderfully familiar feel of Remus’ naked body in the bed, with the earthy, animal scent of him…  “I loved you,” Sirius blurts, unable to keep the words from spilling past his lips.  Remus shifts in the bed next to him.  “And I thought you loved me too.  But you just left me…  What did I do?  Why?  Why did you…?”

Tears are welling in his own eyes now, catching in the corners, and he hastily wipes at them before they can fall down his cheeks.  Remus sighs, tired, and counters, “ _You_ pushed _me_ away—and what did _I_ ever do to _you_?”

“No— _you_ stopped trusting _me,_ ” Sirius insists, pressing his face into the warmth of Remus’ shoulder.  His next sentence comes out muffled.  “And I never gave you reason…  I never betrayed you.”

Remus barks a laugh at that, and Sirius frowns.  “Never?” he asks, and Sirius stomach sinks as he realizes.  But then Remus says, tone going quiet, almost uncomfortable, “But I forgave.  You say you remember the big things?  Fuck… You should remember I forgave you.  I’ve forgiven you for everything you’ve ever said and done.”

 _Everything…_   Sirius breathes wetly against Remus’ skin, and curls his fingers into Remus’ chest.

“And I trusted you,” Remus adds.  “I trusted you up until the end—even when you were accusing me.  I couldn’t _not_.  I think even though you’re saying you remember…” Remus trails off for a moment, closing his eyes, and lays a hand over Sirius’.  “I think you’ve forgotten some important details.”

And it’s like a spark igniting in Sirius mind, those words illuminating a memory…

_Eighteen-years-old, lying in bed in their brand new flat—or at least brand new to them, the start of their life together.  Remus looks lovely lying next to him, sleepy and satisfied, and Sirius is selfishly proud that he’s put that look on Remus’ face.  That he is the only one who puts that look on Remus’ face, the only one who ever has put that look on Remus’ face.  Sirius leans down over him, bumping his nose against his affectionately, while Remus says quietly, “I hope you truly understand what this means…”_

Sirius pulls back and props himself up on an elbow to look down at Remus.  His heart hammers in his chest, wondering if this is some sort of hallucination, some memory conjured by his addled mind.  “Remus?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady.  “Remus?  Have you…?  Have you been with anyone else?  Since I was gone?”

Remus meets his eye, and tells him gently, “If you truly remember, then you already know the answer to that question is ‘no’.”

_…Eighteen-years-old, and Sirius leans in for a kiss, knuckles stroking along Remus’ cheekbone.  When he pulls away, he whispers against Remus’ mouth, “Don’t worry, Moony, I know.  I do.  I’m not going anywhere, I’m **yours.** ”  _

Sirius just _stares_ , the air around them seemingly charged, before he falls into his lover, his partner, the other half to his whole…

His lips land on Remus’ cheekbone in his desperation to get close, his fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulder.  Remus cups the back of Sirius’ head in response, fingers threading through his hair, and drags his mouth to meet his own.  He tastes the same as he always used to after the full moon—bitter, visceral, and wild.  Though the kiss is different, a sort of devastated desperation seeming to claw its way up through Remus, threatening to devour Sirius whole. 

Sirius clings to him, and revels in the deep moan that Remus gives him.  He lets his hand drift down Remus’ side, across the soft skin over his ribcage, along his flank and hip, down the cover the bite scar on his upper thigh.  Remus lets out a broken noise, and Sirius swallows it down, takes his pain and stows it away with his own.  “I love you,” he breathes out against Remus’ lips.  “I still love you.”

“I never stopped,” Remus admits, pulling him closer.  “I hated myself, but I never stopped.  I _couldn’t_ stop.  I _ached_ for you.”

“I’m yours,” Sirius tells him.  “You can have me, you don’t have to hurt…”

Remus chuckles, a dark and carnal noise that makes Sirius’ stomach flipflop.  “I intend to have you,” he rumbles.  “Give me some time…  But I intend to.  _Trust me_.”

Excitement bubbles in Sirius’ chest, and he moves away from the other’s lips to lay his head on his chest.  Remus pets his cheek, his hair, his shoulder, much the same way he would pet Padfoot.  Sirius presses a tender, chaste kiss to the skin in front of him, just next to Remus’ nipple, and tells him, “Then rest.  I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Remus drags his thumb lovingly across Sirius’ lips, and closes his eyes. 

~*~

Sirius naps briefly, before waking up to Remus’ soft, snuffly snoring. 

He sits up in the bed, looking down at his lover with a gentle smile, finally feeling alive and free again.  He stands eventually, leaving the bedroom and wanding into the bathroom.  He stares at himself in the mirror for a moment, his mood dampened briefly at the face that stares back him—cheeks gaunt, eyes shadowed, hair dry and ragged.  He’s a shade of what he once was, and he’d always prided himself in his appearance.

But he can’t dwell on this now, and he turns away from the mirror, shaking his head.  He takes time to clean himself up, to wash his face and brush his teeth and relieve himself, before turning and padding out into the kitchen. 

His mind wanders as he stands over the stove, waiting for the teapot to heat and whistle.   He’s a wreck, and he knows this.  He loses himself daily, somewhere between his fifteen-year-old self and Azkaban.  He wakes from nightmares in the middle of the night, and sometimes sees dark shadows out of the corner of his eyes, making him jump and turn.  Though it’s never a dementor, just his crazed mind. 

And the way the memories are coming back, slowly and in pieces, it makes him wonder how much he still doesn’t remember. 

But the thought of being held again by Remus, kissed again by Remus, touched again be Remus…  To receive his warm looks, whispered affections, his comfort and trust… 

If he can be absolved and accepted, then perhaps he will be okay.

He pours himself a cup of tea once it’s finished, and then meanders into the living room.  He stops in front of Remus’ collection of books, arranged in three long bookshelves taking up the entirety of one wall, and begins to browse.  Remus has a bit of everything collected, wizarding manuals and fiction alike, as well as old Muggle classics, though it’s as he’s perusing the last shelf on the right that he sees it…

There’s one plain, black book on the far left of the highest shelf, with no markings whatsoever on the book’s spine.  Cocking his head in curiosity, Sirius reaches up to pull it off the shelf, and watches as the shelf before him shimmers and dissolves as the book slides away, revealing another bookshelf entirely. 

Sirius takes a step back, dropping the black book in his hand out of shock.  It’s clear immediately why the bookshelf has been hidden by a charm—most if not all of the books on the shelf appear illegal, pertaining to dark arts or blood magic.  Sirius recognizes a couple of his own tomes he had stolen from the Black library upon running away, possession of which is most definitely punishable by a hefty fine. 

He swallows, eyes glancing to the side toward the bedroom, and considers replacing the original black book.  Considers pretending this never happened and he doesn’t know about this secret.  But then he looks back, and his eyes land on a familiar symbol on a book spine—a pentagram with a clawed-handprint smeared through the middle. 

And he remembers…  _He’s fifteen-years-old, feeling atrocious and so very guilty, with Dumbledore gazing down at him from behind his spectacles.  The Headmaster offers him a book, saying, “I think this should offer you some insight into your friend…”_

Sirius reaches out and plucks the book off the shelf, letting it fall open in his hand.  Unbelievably, it falls open to ‘Werewolves: Myth vs. Fact’, and Sirius reads…

He’s halfway through the section on myths regarding sexuality…

_Male werewolves can knot and tie with their mates, though most only choose to do so with their pair-bond and only while in safety and privacy.  While it is most notably a way to ensure conception similar to other canines, it has also been speculated to be a form of social and emotional bonding._

…when Remus stumbles out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, his pajama bottoms practically hanging off his hips.  He glances at Sirius with a drowsy grin, before pouring himself a cup of tea.  It isn’t until he’s started stirring sugar in that he stops, turns back, and does a double-take at the living room.  Sirius stands by the shelf with the opened book, caught red-handed, and shoots Remus his best Casanova-smile.  “G’morning, Moony,” he greets cheerily.

“What’re you doing?” Remus asks, frowning.

“’Oh, g’morning, Pads, how are you?’” Sirius says, mocking Remus’ tone of voice.  Remus’ frown turns sourer.  Sirius sighs, and says, “You have quite the collection here, don’t you?  A registered werewolf with this sort of paraphernalia?  Tsk tsk…”

“Are you going to turn me in?” Remus asks, though his tone is derisive—he knows full well Sirius couldn’t even if he wanted to.  He steps away from the kitchen counter, ambling over to stand by Sirius’ side.  Once Sirius’ sees his approach, he quickly flips away from the pages on werewolf mating practices, attempting to appear casual.

“How did you get this book?” he wonders aloud, leaning back into Remus as the other comes up to stand behind him.  His body is warm, and Sirius is hyperaware of it.

“I took it with me when I left Hogwarts,” Remus answers.  “It was my parting gift upon resigning.”

“Dumbledore gave it to you?” Sirius asks with a laugh, disbelieving. 

Remus chuffs in amusement.  “No,” he answers.  “It was my parting gift to myself.”

“My, my, my, Professor Remus Lupin, stealing forbidden materials?” Sirius says.  “Image what the other Professors would say…  Image what the _Headmaster_ would say…”

One of Remus’ arms wraps around his middle, and Sirius feels him nosing playfully at the back of his neck.  Apparently he’s come to collect on his promise from earlier— _I intend to have you_ —and Sirius finds himself grinning, his heart beating faster in excitement. 

It’s been _so long_. 

“Perhaps.  Though I don’t think Albus or Minerva are under any illusions about me,” Remus notes idly, responding to Sirius’ last teasing statement.

_Seventeen-years-old, sitting in Transfiguration next to Remus, biting his lip as the other rubs him through his trousers under the desk.  Remus is the picture of innocence, appearing to hang onto every word McGonagall says, taking notes with his left hand while his right hand is busy out of sight.  Sirius must be the one to give them away, maybe the flush on his face or the way he’s staring resolutely down at his textbook, but the Professor stops her lecture to snap, “Mr. Lupin, Mr. Black, fifty points from Gryffindor!”_

Sirius’ eyes flick down to the words in front of him, scanning the page in nervous anticipation.  Remus pulls away for a moment, and Sirius hears him having a drink of his tea, the sound of him swallowing.  His fingers still linger at Sirius’ middle, gently teasing at the hem of his shirt.  Sirius reads from the page in front of him…

 _Sanguis Tutela_ : the protection of the blood.  There are warding symbols drawn across the page, various instructions on how to transcribe and place.  But what catches Sirius’s eye: specific casting instructions per grouping of creature, for vampires, for ghouls, for spirits, and of course, for werewolves…

_The werewolf shall use a silver blade to cut horizontally across the forearm, and shall use blood drawn from this wound to place the ward.  Once the incantation is said, the home will be protected.  Blood will boil upon the threshold should any pass with ill-intent._

He remembers Remus’ words to Snape the day prior— _then you must mean me no harm…_

_Twenty-one-years-old, and Sirius stares at the oddly drawn pentagram on the floor of their apartment, hidden by a concealment charm under the couch.  It’s a dark, deep red in color, the color smeared along the off-white carpet at the points.  It’s very obvious what it is—dark arts, blood magic—and Sirius stares at it in horror…_

Sirius pulls away from Remus, sliding to the side and out of his arms.  He turns back to look back at Remus in astonishment, while Remus frowns at him. 

“Where is it?” Sirius asks, dropping the book to the floor.  He sets his tea down on the coffee table before homing in on the couch.  He’s across the room and shoving at it before it even registers. 

“What the bloody hell?” Remus snaps, following him across the room.  

“Your ward,” Sirius clarifies.  He manages to scoot the couch out far enough to look underneath, though there’s nothing detectable there.  Remus either has it placed somewhere else, or the concealment charm is so strong that Sirius can’t sense it.  He huffs in agitation, and repeats, “Where is it?”

Remus is silent for a long moment, his eyes on the book Sirius tossed to the floor, _Sanguinis et Tenebrae._  He walks over to it, picks it up, and smooths out the pages before closing the cover.  Then finally, as Sirius angrily puts the couch back in place, Remus says, “I have two blood-protection wards on the house.  Both of the sigils are in the bedroom, under the bed.”

_Twenty-one-years-old, and Remus snarls at him, “Do not accuse me when you do not understand.  My blood has been protecting us for years—in fact, you’re still **alive** because of me.  And I would willingly spill my own blood again to keep you safe.”_

“Remus…” Sirius says, disbelieving.  “Remus, what…?  _Why...?!_   That is dark magic!  You’re going to get yourself killed!”

“I’m a werewolf, Sirius.  I’m a dark creature,” Remus answers tiredly.  “And you know as well as I do that blood from dark creatures breeds power.  Old wizarding families, ones like your own, would pay heaps of money for just a bit of blood taken from a werewolf.”

“So your excuse is that my horrid family would have done the same?” Sirius snaps.  “Remus, that’s not an excuse.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Remus says with a roll of his eye.  “This is blood willingly given to protect myself and my…  You.  To protect you.”  He stops to sigh in frustration.  “You were the one who always insisted that I wasn’t inherently evil just because of the wolf.  So how can you still not see that _this_ isn’t inherently evil just because I’ve spilt blood.  I haven’t killed anyone—it was my own blood spilt in sacrifice.  Do you understand the _power_ in that?”

“But…” Sirius says, before closing his eyes and holding his head in his hands.  Memories are suddenly rushing back to him—screaming, shouting, doors slamming, crying…  Shouting at Remus to _get the bloody hell out of my flat_ , and Remus stumbling back to the flat at three o’clock in the morning and collapsing onto the couch, completely plastered…  Telling James and Peter what he’d seen, and that Remus was the traitor because he had to be…  He just had to be, decent wizards and witches don’t do things like that…

“Yell at me, wax poetic, I really don’t care,” Remus says.  “But right now, no one is getting in this house.  Anyone who comes onto the property to harm you or me will die.”

“Die?” Sirius asks, incredulous.  “You’ll have Ministry officials drop dead on the doorstep looking for me?  Do you understand the absurdity with that?”

“The wards stay,” Remus says.  He pauses to first replace the dark arts book, _Sanguinis et Tenebrae_ , before picking up the plain black book and sliding it back into its place.  Sirius watches as the shelf of illegal tomes shimmers away and is once again replaced by the normal, unassuming bookshelf matching the others.  Remus clears his throat, turning away from the shelves, and says definitively, “I’m not losing you again.”

The last sentence makes Sirius pause…  _Twenty-one-years-old, and Remus is crying, the first and only time Sirius has seen the other openly cry.  Then Remus says, voice wavering through his tears, “Judge me, hate me, I don’t care.  But we’ve already lost so many good people—and I’m not losing you, too.”_

Sirius collapses down on the couch, his limbs seemingly too weak to hold him up under his own emotion.  “Remus, I…” he says, trailing off.  _Not losing you, too..._   “You’re right.  You’re not evil, you’re not.  You’re good, and genuine, and…”  _Everything to me…_   “But promise me, _promise me_ , that it’s only for protection.  Only for safety.  You’re not dabbling in anything completely crackers.”

Remus just stares at him, before the corner of his mouth quirks up into a half-smile.  “No,” he says.  “Nothing ‘crackers’.”

“Okay, then,” Sirius says.

“Okay?” Remus asks, stepping over to sit down on the couch next to him.  Sirius nods, leaning into him.  Remus wraps an arm around his shoulders, and echoes softly, “Okay.”

 _I’m still not sure I like this_ , Sirius thinks, but Remus leans over then to press his lips against his temple.  His breath is warm as it ghosts over Sirius’ skin, and Sirius sighs, closing his eyes as he tilts his head to encourage Remus toward his jaw.  Remus obliges, kissing down along the skin just like Sirius likes.

“Was the mood completely ruined before, or…?” Remus asks quietly, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“A bit, sorry,” Sirius says, though he throws a hand out to grip Remus’ thigh as the other goes to pull away.  “However, I could probably be convinced otherwise,” he adds, leaning over to press a chaste kiss to Remus’ cheek. 

“Mmm, indeed,” Remus muses, voice playful.  He leans back over to press his face into the curve of Sirius’ neck and shoulder, one hand settling on his stomach.  Then, muffled against skin, “God, Pads, I’ve missed you.”

Butterflies flare up in Sirius’ stomach again, and he squeezes Remus’ thigh.  “Missed you too,” Sirius murmurs.  Then, even softer, almost embarrassed, “Moony, it’s been a long time…  Go easy on me, okay?”

Remus pulls back, then turns Sirius around to face him.  Sirius can see his lingering ache and exhaustion etched in his crow’s feet and frown lines, and he closes his eyes when they kiss, threading his fingers through the other’s brown hair.  When he pulls back, Remus says, “It’s been just as long for me.  I’m nervous, too.”

And the fact that he knows without Sirius even having to say the words aloud— _I’m nervous, too._   Sirius nods, nuzzling against Remus’ face. 

“Bed?” Remus asks gently, taking Sirius by the hand.  And Sirius knows what that means—Remus would stay there on the couch if he just wanted oral, or if he were planning to pull out before it got too far.  Nah, he wants to knot and tie. 

Sirius swallows, stomach flipflopping wildly.  But he nods, finding a grin at spreading across his face, and agrees, “Yeah, bed.”

Remus smiles at him, and leads him off to the bedroom.

 


End file.
